


Nature Boy

by InkInc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sherlock's a father!, Tune in next time on "Ways we love to fuck with our favorite characters!", Uh oh! Does this spell trouble for our young lovers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 16:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10364790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkInc/pseuds/InkInc
Summary: The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return... Unless you're Sherlock Holmes, in which case the lesson doesn't seem to want to stick. Until a little girl forces it to.Sequel to Come Attrition, Come Hell





	

**Nature Boy  
**Chapter 1: Ready** **

***

**221B Baker Street  
** **Now**

_"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.”_

Sherlock almost smiled to himself as he ascended the 17 steps to his flat, the wood creaking beneath him as it always had done.

Well, not always, he supposed. There was the incident with jumping off the roof of a hospital and the subsequent pretending to be dead for 2 years while he tracked down the last of Moriarty’s Network. The wood hadn’t creaked then. Not for him, anyway. And then there was that whole “solitary confinement for 2 weeks” thing that he had to deal with that one time. He had to concede that the wood hadn’t creaked for him during that time either. Not to mention this whole more recent business with his sister blowing up and nearly completely obliterating the 1st floor of Mrs. Hudson’s house. And though, miraculously, his bedroom and the flight of 17 steps had managed to escape the ordeal little worse for the wear (and somehow the floor on which the bomb had actually landed, oddly), he’d still stayed away during the beginning of the reconstruction.

But now everything, for the most part, was back in its place… including himself. Because he belonged here. He’d thought, once, years ago, on the night that The Woman had appeared in his room to challenge everything he knew about himself and his world, that she she was an invader, and he was under attack… because 221B was his castle. His fortress. A place where he could be alone, and where he was protected by impenetrable walls both inside and out. Now, however, he realized that his flat here on Baker street was something so much more than a castle or a battlefront: It was a _home_. It was _his_ home. A home complete with hearth and warmth that always accompanied regular appearances by friends and family, people who loved him and whom he was now more than comfortable loving back. Because love wasn’t a weakness, oh no. Love, sentiment, bonds; they were an advantage. _Caring_ was an advantage. People caring in return was an advantage. He’d heard over and over that there was strength in numbers, and always chalked it up to another of many useless platitudes he’d heard over the course of his 4 decades long life… But John and Rosie Watson, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, and even Eurus and Mycroft Holmes: their love was his strength, and it gave his life a meaning, a _context_ , he’d never known he’d needed. He was better for it, wiser for it.

Though, he knew, all of his thoughts and emotions would forever be subject to the inner processes of his mind and the deeper seated levels of who he was – and who he was, for better or worse, would always be Sherlock Holmes – he also understood now one of the most important things about himself and, indeed, everyone around him…

That he was human, and that it was okay.

Sherlock stepped through the parlor door and began untying his scarf, before unconsciously turning to look toward his bedroom on the other end of the corridor. He began slowly toward the room, pulling his scarf off as he walked. Once there, he threw the garment on his bed, followed shortly after by his coat. Something was off, but he couldn’t quite place exactly what it was right away. His eyes traveled across the space from his bed, to his drawers, to his armoire, to his nightstand. Nothing was out of place, but…

He closed his eyes just for a few moments, but then snapped them open.

 _She’d_ been here.

And then her text alert emitted from his pocket.

He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and read the message.

_**The mantle.** _

He was off toward the parlor and standing at the mantle in a matter of moments – a wide, flat, black box staring him in the face.

Another text alert.

_**A housewarming gift.** _

Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and took the box from the mantle. He pulled the lid off, and smiled a small, likely imperceptible to anyone who may have happened to be watching him, smile at the contents: a simple, though clearly well made, black frame – and behind the glass, a note:

_To remember what matters most._

She’d known of the photo that Sherlock had kept of himself and his brother on his chest of drawers for years. He’d admitted to her finally that it had served as a reminder that he could always count on Mycroft when he really needed him… And after everything, he knew that to be more true now than he’d ever realized in the past. So this gift, this frame, if he understood correctly, was to house a new reminder.

He immediately thought of his family. His real family which would now forever include his friends as well as his blood… And he knew, too, that it included The Woman. And her daughter.

Well, _their_ daughter.

Sherlock looked up suddenly as though startled, nearly dropping the frame in his hand. No, wait. She’d never said that. She’d never even hinted at it… but… yes. It made sense. He knew it made sense, and he knew he was right. He _knew it_ , just the way that he sometimes knew anything, or the way he could predict someone’s moves weeks in advance. He didn’t always understand it, as even he couldn’t always keep up with the way his mind worked, but he’d made the deduction somehow, and there was no doubt in his mind. The child _was_ his. Irene Adler’s little girl was his daughter. His _family_.

She had to be. He wouldn’t accept anything different.

He set the frame back down on the mantle and pulled his phone from his pocket. Having recently only begun to understand the importance of family, he still understood how important, how… fundamentally monumental this was. It was time to stop repressing. Time to stop hiding. Time to stop holding it all back, or holding it all in. He hadn’t seen it before, because he hadn’t wanted to see it before – but he saw it now, and even the racing of his heart and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the apprehension, the anger, and even the _fear_ – none of it could deter him.

_**Why didn’t you tell me?  
SH** _

His text was simple, and most might even say “cryptic”, but not Irene Adler. She’d understand immediately.

A few moments later, her text tone broke the silence yet again.

_**I knew you’d figure it out when you were ready.** _

He didn’t hesitate before replying.

_**I’m ready.  
SH** _

…

**1 Month Earlier**

Sherlock stood behind Mycroft’s desk where he sat, his hands folded in front of his face.

“And what do you get from these meetings with our dear sister, Brother Mine?”

“I get to know my sister.”

Mycroft smiled ironically.

“Ah, the power of music.” Mycroft sat up. “Tell me, aren’t you frightened of a repeat of, shall we call it… her idea of fun and games?”

Sherlock laughed shortly, though his face barely registered it at all.

“Do I underestimate her? No. Do I fear her?” Sherlock shook his head once, slightly. “No.”

“You care for her.”

“Of course I care for her.”

Mycroft raised his forehead.

“Well, that’s certainly new.”

“It’s not new. It’s been held at bay by years of repressed psychological torment, or did you forget the part where you lied to me my whole life while terrifying me with stories of east winds and dogs?”

“To be quite fair, the dog was completely your fabrication.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a step toward his brother’s desk.

“She’s brilliant. She’s a genius beyond what you and I can even comprehend, and you locked her away in a cell with a bed and a table…” he slammed his fist on the desk, before leaning over it with both hands, but his brother only looked slightly startled by these actions. “I was alone for two weeks, Mycroft. Two _weeks_.” he stood straight, and began half pacing. “With nothing to preoccupy my time with but the thoughts inside my own mind.” he finished this sentence by making an agitated twirling motion near the back of his head.

Sherlock stopped, biting his lip and placing his hands on his hips, before turning back to his brother.

“It was hell.” he continued, and then shook his head. “And I can’t even begin to imagine what nearly a lifetime of solitude could have been like for a Holmes.”

Mycroft swallowed and sat back in his chair.

“She’s a murderer, Sherlock.” he started. “What would you suggest I had done?”

“Nothing different from what you did.” Sherlock answered honestly. “But now I can help her. I’m her brother, and I promised to bring her home.”

“I’m assuming in a figurative sense.”

“Real enough for her. Home doesn’t have to be a place, Mycroft.”

“I’ve seen redemption take a lot of forms, but never the form of a violin.”

Sherlock walked to the corner of the room and grabbed his coat from the stand.

“There’s no such thing as redemption.” He said, pulling the Belstaff over his shoulders. “We will always have always done what we’ve done, and will always be what we have been. Life isn’t a balance sheet.”

“And what is it?”

Sherlock put his hand on the door handle and turned to Mycroft.

“Life.” he responded, before pulling the door open and leaving his brother alone in his office.

...

**221B Baker Street  
Now**

Sherlock had never noticed how similar in appearance he and The Woman were… not until this moment when he looked over the results of the melding of those features on one face. Deep blue eyes set in to a background of sharp angles, dark, curly brown hair… Pale skin flushed with just enough color on the cheeks.

He sat back from his computer screen, a tightening in his chest beginning to make it difficult for him to breath.

This face was Irene, and this face was him… and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He felt an odd and, he thought, unearned sense of pride as he examined the expression of curiosity on her perfect young face, because he’d done little to contribute to her life other than some genetic coding... But he loved her. Easily and without expectation; loved her more than he would have given himself credit for being capable of, even now.

But as his thoughts turned to Irene’s husband, and his daughter being raised by another man, his hands balled to fists on either side of the computer.

He closed his computer, rotating his jaw before standing and buttoning his jacket button. He ruffled his hand through his hair, feeling the anger mount, feeling the helplessness pool, feeling the hatred and bile rise from the pit of his stomach…

_I knew you’d figure it out when you were ready._

Sherlock picked up a mug from the table and, with a sound of anguished fury escaping his chest, hurled it across the room and against the wall. The ceramic shattered loudly, and cold tea dripped down the wall paper as though the yellow happy face were crying.

Sherlock swallowed, his breathing ragged.

Irene Adler. The Woman. He’d never forgive her for this.

**...  
TBC**


End file.
